A cool afternoon in April, lightly breezed, sun a point whose light is more full of warmth than the air it bakes. On Peachtree Street straddling the coping above some steps she braided your black hair as your face, completely satisfied, completely elsewheres, as We feel when someone fusses over us or grants attention to our belongings, soaked in the sun. You did not appear to be thinking, of working, of sex, of being watched, only of the fingers against your scalp, the intense focus on you and your satisfaction.